


saints out after curfew

by zhooshybat



Series: it's a nice day to start again [2]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhooshybat/pseuds/zhooshybat
Summary: For the first time since Maxwell's dramatic demise it feels like his ghost might stop haunting their lives.  It seems fitting, somehow, that a reporter would be his exorcist.
Relationships: Arthur Stuart/Curt Wild, Mandy Slade/Curt Wild
Series: it's a nice day to start again [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1472732
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [ kariachi](/users/%5Bkariachi%5D/) for beta

The day after talking to that reporter from the Herald—letting him in on those little horrifying moments only Curt had been privy to until then, and some even he still didn't know about—and Mandy is already trying to put it all behind her again. She knows that maybe a tenth of what she said will make print, if that, and that's _if_ Brian's bloody lackeys don't manage to get the story pulled entirely. So she's spent the whole day halfheartedly cleaning her apartment, killing time before Curt shows up with cheap beer and a movie neither of them will actually watch in what has to be their thousandth attempt to banish Brian's ghost from their lives.

She only turns on the television to have some background noise to drown out the memory of the reporter's—Arthur's—seemingly-genuinely horrified _you mean no one told you?_ and groans when she's greeted by Brian's face covered with Tommy Stone's plastic smile. She's about to switch it right off again when she hears Arthur's voice again—

_'What's your response to the recent allegations connecting you to bisexual pop singer Brian Slade who staged his own assassination ten years ago this week in London?'_

"Jesus Christ," she breathes, dropping the remote as she walks around the sofa, sitting down with a breathless laugh as she watches Shannon put herself between Brian and the still-rolling cameras to hide him from the consequences of his actions. At least some people didn't change.

When she first agreed to meet up with Arthur Stuart, she hadn't expected to get anything out of it besides the usual pity payment. And sure, unlike the dozens of others over the years who had hounded her about Brian he'd seemed to actually care about _her_ part of the story. Even though he'd come to her because of Brian's singular ridiculously dramatic act of self destruction rather than her own rather mundane and prolonged descent into obscurity, and even after being quite justifiably disappointed when she'd made it clear right off she wasn't able to give him what he wanted, he'd actually listened and seemed truly disgusted by what he saw when she wiped all the glitter off of their lives.

(She wondered, from the moment she heard that accent, if he actually remembered her as she'd once been; if she graced the cover of some magazines in an old forgotten box in his closet, if he'd been one of the hundreds who had written letters about how much Brian's work— _their_ work, goddammit—meant to them. She'd almost felt bad when that thought came to her; wondering if she was stripping all the beauty from something that had given him joy and turned it into something he would always see as ugly and monstrous. But then again, Brian had done that to her, to the extent she'd sold some of her rings not because she needed the cash but the sensation that his vain, selfish claws were digging back into her every time she slid them on her fingers).

But while seeing _her_ instead of the story most people wanted her to be would have cemented his place in her memory, when she'd given him Curt's number she hadn't really expected anything to come of it. Not just because she knew Curt wanted to talk about Brian to the press even less than she did, but because Brian and his army of suits actually thought Curt was a real threat still. It had been impossible for them to make Curt into something the world could ignore, shove him into the corners of fourth-rate cabaret bars until he faded into the background. And he could have so easily used that, gone back to being the feral, angry man half the world still saw whenever they looked at him. He could have cursed Brian's name anytime he got half a chance, spit out the truth to the first magazine that gave him an opening. Instead, he'd kept quiet all this time, and while he'd never said anything when they met up, Mandy couldn't help wondering if he suspects Brian would find some way to hurt _her_ for something Curt did. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

And she can't be sure that what she's watching unfold on her TV right now—the utterly brazen accusation she wouldn't have imagined coming from the rather bashful looking man who had barely been able to meet her gaze when he first walked into the bar, that flicker of the Brian she'd thought she'd known once upon a time showing through the cracks of Tommy's mask as he tries to hold his temper in check, Shannon's screeching—is either her or Curt's doing at all. Curt might go to the shows on occasion (she never prods when she sees the crumpled passes, doesn't force the subject, because she knows too well how hard it is to completely let go of that vain hope of seeing the man she thought Brian had been until it was far too late), and she knows he hasn't been stepped on by Reynolds' thugs quite as much as she has, but somehow she still feels this incredible show that might well destroy the reporter's career is all his own doing.

She wishes she still had half the balls to pull that sort of stunt.

She sits there long after Brian and Shannon have run away, mind reeling as she wonders just what the fuck her world is going to turn into now. There's sure to be a phone call tonight, a suit at her door tomorrow, but what more can they take from her? And even if they threatened to find some way to put her on the streets, what good would it do them _now_? There had been a time not that long ago when there had been some point to getting her name on every single blacklist they could find; forcing her to make what could very charitably called a living in third-rate dives where her name still opened the door just enough for her to get through. But now? Now, she almost wants them to demand she tell the world there isn't a shred of truth in the reporter's accusation, just to see what happens when she doesn't back down.

Mandy's just starting to ponder if she should find where she scribbled down Arthur's number to ask him out for a drink sometime before Curt shows up and she forgets, when her phone rings. Hoping that no matter how determined and enraged she is, Shannon can't possibly be calling to threaten her already, she picks up with only a slight waver in her voice.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Listen, I'm probably not going to make it over tonight."

As much of a relief as it is to hear Curt's voice instead of Shannon's or one of the suits or godfuckingforbid _Tommy's_ , Mandy immediately feels her heart seize up with fear. She hates that her first thought is Brian has finally managed to draw Curt back in and that she'll really be alone in this world that hasn't cared about her since she dared to put herself first in her own life. It's not that she thinks Curt is weak by any means, or even that she's worried he'd hurt her like that just for a pity fuck, but because even with a new name and accent and _face_ she knows the part of Brian that is so good at making people do whatever he wants with the right honeyed words is still in residence and she's not sure she'd be able to stand up to his charms if he caught her at the wrong moment and Curt...

Well. There are times when she actually hates Brian more for what he did to Curt, and thinks she might have been able to forgive Brian if he'd thrown it all away for love instead of whatever he has now. When she'd been talking to that reporter, even when she'd stripped all the colour and light from the ugliest moments, she hadn't been able to do the same to that heartbreakingly brief time when Brian had actually acted like he cared about Curt more than the fame. While it had hurt to watch her husband fall in love with someone else, she'd never been able to hate Curt for making Brian happy. Maybe that was what had kept them from becoming enemies when it all fell apart—they had both cared more about pleasing Brian than keeping their own hearts safe, while Brian had never cared about anyone but himself.

But if he's managed to draw Curt back in just long enough to break his heart again, Mandy's not sure she'll be able to keep herself from doing something so spectacularly, explosively stupid Shannon will make sure that the few places that will let her in based on who she once was slam their doors in her face, and Curt would probably tell her it wasn't worth it—that _he_ wasn't worth it, even when he's the only real thing she has left. After all, she's been waiting almost ten years for Brian to notice that she and Curt hadn't severed all ties after that concert, but had dared to actually care about each other in spite of all his attempts to drive them to opposite sides of his petty little wars. It makes sense that, just when she might have found some small way to get back at him, he'd turn around and try to rip away the only person who has really seen the real her and still stuck around.

So she doesn't even try to sound like she's not begging with him when she does finally manage to respond. "Are you asking me to talk you out of it? Curt, please, you know as well as I do what a bad idea-"

"It's not Brian. Fuck Brian."

She winces at Curt's snapped reply; normally that tone would make her snap right back at him but she can't blame him for being angry now. He's always been the one person she could rely on to never make her feel like a pathetic failure when she let herself get drawn in by someone just because their eyes or lips or whatever looked just a bit like the man she thought she'd known once upon a time. So instead of starting the fight that would be all but inevitable most of the time, she just lets out a heavy sigh and runs a hand over her face.

"Promise me you'll be careful, or I'll never forgive you."

“I have a condom, and I don’t think Arthur could hurt me if he tried.”

“Wait. _Arthur?"_ She can't have heard him right; sure, it could be a coincidence, but given that she literally sent the reporter his way it's hard to believe it could be anyone else. "Arthur Stuart, from the Herald?”

“And the Rainbow." There's a slight hint of a smile in his voice as he says that, and for a moment Mandy can't quite figure out why. The last time Curt was even at the Rainbow was—well, the last time _she_ was there.

She feels a familiar stab of guilt over that old lie, sharper than usual since she actually told Arthur the truth of it but hasn't been able to summon up the courage to do the same with Curt after all these years. There are moments when she's certain he'll understand why she did it, how scared she'd been about what might happen if he knew Brian had actually seen him pouring his heart out on that stage and had just walked out the door. But other times she's terrified that knowing she'd lied, even (or maybe because) if it was to try to protect him, will cause Curt to finally walk out of her life forever.

But thinking about that night, and more specifically Arthur, dusts off some other piece of that night and she can't help a burst of laughter when it clicks. True it had been dark and smoky backstage, and most of her focus had been on clinging to Curt, but—

“You’re kidding. Jesus, I thought he looked familiar. I can’t say I blame you, though. He’s adorable."

Which is true; as difficult as it had been to really talk about Brian—not just Maxwell the alien-god the whole world had worshiped, but the boy in the ridiculous dress who had pulled her into his web with honeyed words and a guitar—it had been quite charming to see Arthur actually look flustered around her in a way no one had in well over a decade. And as for the matter of how he probably first caught Curt's eye—well, she'd be the last to throw stones at Curt for sleeping with someone because they happened to look a bit like the man they thought Brian had been.

Not that she thinks _this_ is about Brian, not in the way too much of their lives has been. Neither she or Curt would ever claim to be well-adjusted or that they hadn't done some spectacularly self-destructive things they knew even at the time were bad ideas, but she gets the feeling this is more in spite of Brian than because of him. She almost asks if he saw the press conference, but thinks better of it; it won't change anything regardless, and if hasn't, bringing it up won't do anything besides tarnish what might be the first night either of them has had in years without Brian's ghost trying to slip into their bed.

"Well, you'd better give me all the details later. If you haven't called by this time tomorrow, I'll assume I'll need to track him down and figure out what I'm going to do with his body."

Curt's real, warm laughter makes it impossible for her not to smile despite how very serious she is—although, really, she's more concerned for Curt's heart than any other part of him. "Right. I'll talk to you later."

"Have fun. Good night, Curt."

"'Night."

The line clicks off and Mandy hangs up with a small smile. Sure, it's possible that Brian and Shannon might actually find some way to punish her for what Arthur's done, but if Curt actually does get at least one good night with someone besides her who might see _him_ , it feels well worth whatever price she'll end up paying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's odd, how nice the idea is; that they managed to find each other in all that darkness and stay tethered. It's the kind of love story that belongs in a ballad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Cowriter for helping me make this make sense and for giving me endless support and inspiration. <3

"See you around.” 

“Cheers.” 

It takes less than ten minutes before Curt gives up, turns around and heads back to the bar to wait outside the door. He pulls out a cigarette, remembers he stole this pack from Mandy, and the lighter sputters in the wind. 

“Fuck.” Cupping his hand lets the flame take hold, and he takes a drag before heading for the pay phone down the block. Two quarters and another few drags later, and she picks up. 

“Listen, I’m probably not going to make it over tonight.” 

Mandy sucks in a breath. “Are you asking me to talk you out of it? Curt, please, you know as well as I do what a bad idea—“ 

“It’s not Brian. Fuck Brian.” 

He winces at the harshness of his voice. There’s a moment of silence on the other end, then a sigh. 

“Promise me you’ll be safe, or I’ll never forgive you.” 

“I have a condom, and I don’t think Arthur could hurt me if he tried.” 

“Wait. Arthur? Arthur Stuart, from the Herald?” 

“And the Rainbow.” 

“You’re kidding.” The laughter is, at least, a little lighter, even if it's somewhat shocked. “Jesus, I knew he looked familiar. I can’t say I blame you, though. He’s adorable.” 

It's an interesting choice of words, but knife-sharp in its accuracy. She's always been able to do that, tease out his poet's heart and put words to its passions even as she tries to keep it held safe in her hands. He always breaks it himself anyway, but that's why she's still here when no one else has ever stuck around: because even when he snaps like he did a second ago, she seems to trust him to pull his head out of his ass eventually.

She, out of anyone on this hellish rock they're all stuck hurtling through space on, has a right to be suspicious–she knows him well enough to understand the kind of shit he's liable to get himself into, to know half the reason he was so vehement is the crumpled paper burning a hole in his pocket. All  _ Tommy  _ would have to do is look at him, even with that stranger's face; give him a scrap of quarter and he'd use it to hang himself before the idea even fully formed in his head. 

If it were anyone but her, he wouldn't bother out of spite, but he's spent an awful lot of time trying and failing to protect her from heartbreak too, and at a few dark moments, that effort had been the only thing keeping him crawling out of bed in the morning. He has a  _ reason _ , as little as he deserves it, not to throw away everything she's invested in turning him into a halfway decent person.

"Well, you'd better give me all the details later. If you haven't called by this time tomorrow, I'll assume I'll need to track him down and figure out what I'm going to do with his body."

Curt hears himself laughing–and it's surprisingly sincere, buoyed by the reminder of the much better mistake he's about to make. 

"Right. I'll talk to you later."

He tries to put the surge of gratitude into his voice. He hopes he isn't just hearing what he wants to, when he thinks he picks up on an understanding in hers. 

"Have fun. Good night, Curt."

"'Night."

Their relationship defies all odds and expectations, transitioning from schoolgirls at a sleepover to schoolgirls behind the bleachers to these moments of quiet, profound intimacy, usually found at two in the morning surrounded by empty bottles of shitty beer as they murmur their shared story, remind each other that they aren't alone in the baggage they're carrying.

They're both too fucked up for the real thing—there are only so many times a person can have the rug pulled out from under them before giving up on the idea completely. It's easier not to bother, to seek each other out whenever one of them gets lonely instead of falling headfirst into yet another pile of rat shit and broken promises. They don't have to talk about it, because they both already know; their scars are in all the same places, restricting all the same motions.

She's the only constant he has, whatever form it takes, and putting words to it almost feels cheap. He finds himself diverting his attention to the memory of her kind, familiar face, and letting himself look forward to telling her all about it. 

(And most likely giving her an encore, too, at some point. If he's going to cut out on her now, he'll have to make up for it later, and he's honestly a little disappointed that he's not going to fall asleep with his head on her stomach and his face still damp from showing her his appreciation.) 

He's not sure how long he ends up zoning out. Arthur, bless him, looks startled to find Curt outside the bar, lounging against a wall halfway through another cigarette. But then he turns that delicious shade of pink that Curt still vividly remembers, and a tentative, flirty smile plays at the corner of his mouth, and without a word he inclines his head and waits for Curt to fall into step next to him. 

His apartment is more like a shoebox, thin and tall and cramped and lacking any of the personality that Curt knows is hidden somewhere under all that gray. Then he catches sight of the records, and he makes a beeline for them, rifling through the sleeves. 

“Vinyl’s better,” he comments, and Arthur smiles. 

"There's something in them cassettes can't reproduce. It's imperfect, but that's part of the experience." 

“I’m glad we agree.” He winks, and Arthur blushes again. “Depeche Mode, New Order, The Smiths, Joy Division, The Cure…are you okay, man? Do you want me to call someone for you?” 

Arthur answers by pulling off his shirt, so Curt gives up on the records and grabs him by the ass, grinding against him through layers of denim. It’s more frustrating than anything, and evidently Arthur agrees, from the needy sound he makes and the sudden vise-like grip on Curt’s shoulders. 

“Fuck me _. _ ”

And Curt, for his part, can’t deny anything from such sweet lips, so he pushes Arthur back towards the bed with one hand and yanks his own shirt off with the other. The condom—fuck, it’s still in his jacket, which he draped over a chair after coming in—cursing, he tugs open his fly to relieve the increasingly uncomfortable pressure and grabs for the pocket of his coat. 

Arthur, meanwhile, has stripped off his pants and is propped up on his elbows on the mattress, eyes shut, plush bottom lip caught between his teeth. He parts his legs, opens his eyes halfway and gives Curt a look that goes straight to his dick, and with a triumphant growl his fingers close around the foil packet— _ finally— _ and he pounces, taking hold of his all-too-willing prey. 

—

It’s been years since Arthur felt like this. 

Curt, though strong enough to pin him to the mattress, is no less gentle or thorough tonight than he had been their first time. He draws everything out, refusing to comply with Arthur’s increasingly frantic requests for  _ more, come on, more _ , and it’s heady and maddening and perfect. 

Arthur is on his back with one knee bent up to his chest, squirming helplessly under Curt’s slow, methodical fingers. Just two, even though he was ready for a third ages ago, twisting and curling in him until he feels like he might come untouched, followed by a moment of stillness to bring him back down from the edge, then right back up again. 

He can’t breathe and Curt is staring down at him like he’s beautiful, eyes alight with a predatory fire that makes Arthur’s gut twist. 

“Do it _ , _ ” he begs again, clutching uselessly at Curt’s arm. “Curt, I need you, I’m ready,  _ fuck me!”  _

“You’re incredible,” Curt tells him, kissing him gently. He curls his fingers one last time, smirking at the yelp it draws from Arthur, then— _ oh god oh god yes— _ pulls his fingers out and tears open the condom. “You haven’t changed at all. I knew that same skin-hungry little cockwhore was in there somewhere.” 

The word, though ostensibly an insult, doesn’t come out cruel at all—in fact, there’s a sense of wonderment there that Arthur can just barely pick up on through the haze of desperation. He responds with a sigh of agreement, and Curt rewards him by nuzzling into his neck and carefully, slowly pushing in. After the extensive teasing, it feels so good Arthur’s vision goes fuzzy around the edges, and he clutches at Curt’s back and arches up against him, savoring the pressure and heat and fullness. 

“ _ Fuck— _ “ 

“I know. I’m getting there.”

The bloody infuriating arsehole did this last time, too—and made that same devilish face when he finally pounced. Wolfish, tender,  _ familiar  _ in a way that had seemed long out of reach. 

(He'd brushed the tears away, too, when the first time had been just as overwhelming and beautiful.) 

Unexpected is the care he takes in pitching his sweet voice soft—though, of course, it shouldn't have been; Curt knows just as well as Arthur does how important it is, these days, to keep quiet, and what Arthur learned from shame Curt perfected through his music, pitching the same impassioned refrain from the first time into pianissimo with expert control and equal emotion. The sound he makes as he finishes—a whisper of a sob, buried in Arthur's throat—is euphoric, exactly the same way it had been when he threw back his head and  _ howled  _ on the rooftop _ ,  _ ricocheting off the stone. 

(The noise when he brings Arthur off first, something between a hungry moan and a deep, all but predatory snarl, is identical, breathed against his ear too close for anything louder.) 

By all rights, the mood afterwards should be completely different, both of them dulled by the grime of day-to-day life and sitting on a decade's worth of built-up bad luck. Maybe it will be later, although as soon as Arthur thinks it he scolds himself for being presumptive that there will be a later at all. If this is all they're going to have, it's best to make it count, and not dwell on the what-ifs. 

But despite the lack of anything that sparkles and the cold impersonality of the setting, it still feels just the same as it had then. Naked, laughing with each other as the snow began to fall, squirming close to keep from freezing. 

"Remind me to send flowers to Ms. Slade." 

It's a quip, but Curt looks startled at the reference. For an instant, he looks like he did backstage, pressed up against her, as Arthur tried and failed not to stare or give away how acutely he could feel their emotions pouring off of them. 

Then Curt smiles, and it's such a sweet thing it makes Arthur's heart flutter. 

"I'm not sure how she'd feel about you calling her that. She  _ did  _ tell me she thinks you're adorable, so she'd probably find it charming, but she might punch you in the face." 

Arthur chokes on his spit for a moment, and Curt muffles a giggle into the top of his head. 

"Not sure where she got that idea." 

"Like I told you. You haven't changed at all." Curt shifts onto his side, bright blue eyes muted by the darkness. "She remembers you. I think you might have been the first Maxwell fan who didn't yell at her or throw a drink in her face, after all of that." 

Because nobody had told her. Nobody had cared enough to tell her. The rest of the world discarded her like a torn silk slip, deemed her irreparably stained, blamed her for the whole thing even when all she'd done was stand there and watch.

"See, that just makes me angry."

"And that's why she likes you."

Arthur feels himself flush. Of course she does, if Curt's the only person who's treated her decently since then—excepting maybe that bartender who'd given him the stink-eye as he entered. The way she came alive as they talked was both flattering and deeply troubling, from the feeling that she was sharing her story with him because she wasn't used to anyone giving a single shite about what she had to say. 

"I like her too. Always have. Used to copy her makeup, actually." There's a hand tightening on his neck—Curt is staring back at him, something in his expression going intensely fond. 

"She noticed," he replies, tender. "Wouldn't have given you my number if she didn't think she could trust you with me. That's a pretty rare occurrence for both of us, to be honest."

"You've both been hurt the same way, and now you're just about the only people who haven't shattered each other's hearts. It's hard to let go after something like that, and I'm not sure it'd be a good thing to try." 

(Arthur knows better than he'd like to admit, and shoves it down into the back of his memory. The spell is too tempting to be broken.) 

Curt smiles again, and this time Arthur can see the tiredness in it, the slight lines forming on his face from years of screaming his fury into a microphone. 

"Not a lot of people I sleep with understand that." 

He looks so wistful that Arthur can't think of anything to do but kiss him. He's a little wistful too, but at least he knows for sure now that Curt has someone waiting for him, isn't going home to empty rooms and emptier, soured memories. 

—

Morning comes, and with it the smell of coffee and sound of Curt messing about in Arthur's kitchen. 

"Didn't really sleep much," he explains, pouring two steaming mugs and settling with them on the floor. Even in matters of seating choices, he rebels against convention, and Arthur is half grinning when he joins him. 

"Thank you for last night." The coffee is still too hot to drink. After a moment of hesitation, he leans his head against Curt's shoulder, and instantly feels tight arms looping around him. 

"Thank  _ you _ ," Curt murmurs into Arthur's hair. "For reminding me that there were good things back then, too."

Arthur reaches up to tangle their hands together, awed by that declaration—the idea that  _ he,  _ of all people, is a memory that hasn't been tainted. 

"I'd do it again in a heartbeat." 

"Yeah?" Curt looks, suddenly, as bright as he used to in photographs. Maybe brighter. "I'm gonna take you up on that. Gimme your number." 

So Arthur does, scrawling it on Curt's wrist with a marker for lack of immediately-available scrap paper. He'd meant to print up some business cards, but then he got lost in his own history and it flew straight out of his head. The goodbye kiss lingers with promise. 

He's got the day off, and spends most of the morning tied up in nostalgia. Curt's silver trousers had matched Mandy's grey leopard print; they'd been synchronous since then, and it's only now becoming obvious why. 

It should have been from the moment they first shared each other's space. It felt almost intrusive, standing there while they held each other, whispered intimacies that make perfect sense now. Never, at any point, had either of them given in to the narrative that they were supposed to loathe each other; it stands to reason they would continue defying expectations and fall in love instead. 

Without her, none of it—not the stardom, not the revolution, not Tommy Stone's massive success—would have been any more than a fantasy, shot down before it had a chance to blossom. Everything, if he thinks on it, goes back to her, and she got obscurity and disdain for her trouble.

It's odd, how nice the idea is; that they managed to find each other in all that darkness and stay tethered. It's the kind of love story that belongs in a ballad. 

He's rinsing out the empty mugs when the idea hits him. Before he can talk himself out of it, he digs through the disaster zone of clutter until he finds his notebook, flipping through the pages as he sits down by his telephone. 

"Hullo, Ms. Slade?" Because the only way to know is to test the theory, and he's morbidly curious now—"Er, this is Arthur Stuart, from last week." 

Pointedly not 'from the Herald'; establishing straight away that this time it's off the record. After everything she told him—after everything  _ Curt  _ told him last night—it seems like the least he can do to reach out to her, make sure she knows he'd never dream of coming between the two of them, that she holds a great deal more value to him as a person than as a source, that he respects her position completely and is more than willing to defer to it.

His mouth is dry, but he can still hear Curt's voice in the back of his mind telling him she likes him with a certainty that could only have come from hearing it directly. If there weren't so much to make up for, he might have been too shy, but even now he can't quite get her loneliness out of his head, swirling around her with the plumes of her cigarette. She deserves to know someone else is willing to join her corner, too. 

"I was wondering if I could take you for coffee." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said to the aforementioned cowriter, shipper Arthur gives me life. 
> 
> Until we meet again, darlings!


End file.
